


14 Valentines

by jehans



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Brief mention of past torture, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Dacryphilia, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub Play, Five Foot Nine Bucky, Former POW Bucky Barnes, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mirror Sex, Possessive Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Secret Admirer, Shrunkyclunks, Stan Lee Cameo, Sub Bucky Barnes, Valentine's Day, Wall Sex, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, idiots to lovers, inappropriate use of fruit, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29630145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: Someone is trying to woo Steve.Every day in February leading up to Valentine's Day, Steve is sent an expensive, if a bit impersonal, gift from a secret admirer. And while he's less than impressed by this covert attempt to win his heart, he'sveryimpressed by the sweet, funny, and deeply attractive delivery driver who brings these gifts to his door every day.Bucky is amazing, and Steve is falling for him hard and fast, but each day that goes by is another day closer to Valentine's Day, and the expected end of his secret admirer's gifts. Steve had better figure out soon if Bucky's clear flirtation with him is serious, or if he's just in it for the chase. Because if he's serious, there are Things Steve would like to do....
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 42
Kudos: 325
Collections: Cupid's Stupids: A Stucky Valentine's Day 2021





	14 Valentines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fingerprintbruises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingerprintbruises/gifts).



> This fic is the first runner-up to my Cupid's Stupids 2021 Fic Giveaway! It is based on a prompt given to me by [Bones, aka fingerprintbruises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingerprintbruises) (yes, another one, it's NOT MY FAULT, SHE KNOWS ME TOO WELL). I _loved_ writing these sweet idiots, even if they both ran away from me multiple times, and Steve kept trying to love confess waaaaay too early. 😅
> 
> I'm currently working on the fic based on the winning prompt, so that will be up in the near future, but as this particular one is set during the Valentine's season (is that a thing? it is for these purposes), I wanted to get this one up as close to the actual holiday as I could. I hope you enjoy these two dumbasses and their romantic shenanigans!
> 
> AS ALWAYS all of my love to Bones for your work beta'ing your own fic!! YOU ARE THE BEST I LOVE YOU!

═════ ✭❤︎❶❤︎✭ ═════

On the first day of February, Steve Rogers gets a delivery.

Not that this is, in and of itself, a particularly unusual event. Steve gets deliveries on a not-infrequent basis, and they’re always delivered to him by the same person.

See, when you’re a high-profile person of a particular interest to foreign factions, supervillains, and — well, let’s be frank — Nazis, it is, apparently, a wise consideration to have your mail screened, before it poisons you, or blows up your entire building. Steve likes his building quite a bit, so when Tony insisted Steve use the same service to screen his mail that Tony’s been using himself for years, for once, Steve agreed without a fight.

Turns out, the service is kind of great. They employ trusted delivery drivers — often people who once ran high-end security, or worked in secretive government agencies, so they know what they’re doing — and assign each of their clients only one or two drivers. The trucks and drivers’ uniforms just look like regular USPS trucks and uniforms, so it doesn’t appear weird from the outside, and Steve never has to interact with anyone he doesn’t know ahead of time, so random people aren’t finding out where Captain America lives when he comes to the door. It’s very safe, very simple, and best of all, Steve’s building hasn’t been blown up yet.

Steve doesn’t get enough mail to need it delivered every single day, so he only has the one driver, having opted to just not receive mail on days his driver isn’t working. The guy’s name is Stan. He’s this tiny, ancient sweetheart of a man, who Steve is pretty sure knows how to kill someone four times his size with merely a post-it note. Steve loves him.

The unusual thing about February 1st, as opposed to any other day Steve might get a delivery, is that when he looks through the peephole, he doesn’t see Stan.

He sees—well, holy shit.

What Steve sees are the most stunning pair of silvery-blue eyes a man has surely ever witnessed through a peephole.

“Hi, there,” the man in possession of these stunning peephole eyes calls through the door. “I’ve been informed by my employer that you haven’t had a chance to see my credentials. Go ahead and give them a call, and they can sort it out. I’ll wait out here. Last name’s Barnes.”

“Okay,” Steve calls back, even though, security-wise, he probably shouldn’t be giving away his location like that. “Thanks, I’ll be right back.”

He watches through the peephole as Stunning-Eyes Barnes nods, and then he shakes himself off enough to stop drooling, and get on the phone with the delivery service.

The woman on the other end of the call is apologetic about the shift that was made while Steve was out of town, and he tries to assure her that it’s perfectly all right, especially considering he unexpectedly spent the last two months in deep cover, and only got back last night. She confirms Steve’s new delivery guy’s last name, ID number, and physical description (although she notably does _not_ mention that his eyes are the height of human perfection, which is suspicious), and then she sends Steve’s phone three separate pictures of the guy sporting varying hairstyles.

By the time Steve gets off the phone, only a minute or two later, he’s pretty satisfied Stunning-Eyes Barnes _isn’t_ here to assassinate him, but you really can’t be too careful — especially when your dick is trying to convince you to just invite the guy straight in, protocols be damned, and _let_ him assassinate you if that’s what he really wants — so Steve does the grown-up thing, and asks for his ID number through the door.

“You’ve got that super hearing thing, right?” Stunning-Eyes asks, his volume already lower than it was before.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms warily.

Stunning-Eyes drops his volume even lower, leaning in closer to the door, and murmurs, “Three two five five seven oh three eight.”

And. Well. Those are the correct numbers. In the correct order, even. The fact that that low, rumbling voice, saying said correct numbers, in the correct order, went _straight_ to Steve’s dick is neither here nor there.

Steve carefully unlocks the four different deadbolts on his front door, and opens it to the most absolutely breathtaking man in the entirety of the universe.

Jesus, those eyes are even better without the peephole obscuring them; big, almond-shaped, and strikingly blue, with perpetual laughter lines pressed into the corners. His nose is straight and angular, but softer at the tip, and he has the kind of jaw that could cut glass, contrasted delightfully by his sweetly cleft chin. His pretty, pink mouth is curved into the most beautiful crooked smile Steve has ever seen in his life, and his long, softly curled, chestnut hair is pulled back into a loose bun at the crown of his head. He’s probably around thirty, and about five inches shorter than Steve. His face is at the perfect height to easily tuck into the curve of Steve’s neck, if he had such an inclination. The left sleeve of his uniform is pinned at the shoulder, and in his only arm, he’s holding a huge bouquet of roses.

“Delivery for Steve?” the breathtaking man asks, in a breathtakingly smoky basso profundo. As he’s asking, he looks up at Steve, and that lovely crooked smile drops into an awed ‘o,’ revealing how full and plush those lips really are. “Holy shit, you’re _actually_ Captain America.”

“That’s me,” Steve says awkwardly, all too-big bulk compared to the lithe strength of the man in front of him. He reaches out to take the roses from Stunning-Eyes — and the clipboard Stunning-Eyes also passes over from under his arm — remarking, “You’re not—” But then he stops abruptly, pales, and rasps, “What happened to Stan?”

Stan is very, very old. Did he—?

But Stunning-Eyes laughs, big and loud, and not at all unkind. “He _retired_ , don’t worry!” he assures Steve quickly, and _thank god_. “He—oh, shit, you were away when he left,” Stunning-Eyes realizes, “he wanted me to give you something. I left it in my truck. Stay here, I’ll be right back!”

“You don’t have to—” Steve starts to tell him, but the beautiful man is already gone, darting away to fetch whatever it was Stan wanted him to give Steve.

Unsure of what to do — whether he should close his door and wait for Stunning-Eyes to knock again, or stay here _exactly_ where he is — Steve just kinda stands in his open doorway, awkwardly.

Luckily, Stunning-Eyes only gives Steve a minute or so to backtrack through regretting all of his life choices that led him to being utterly unable to act like a person in front of such a pretty man, because all at once, he’s back again, jogging back up to Steve’s door, like a goddamn vision, with a simple envelope in his hand.

“Stan said you’ve been his favorite regular,” he says, handing the envelope over to Steve. “He was bummed he didn’t get to say goodbye, so when he found out I was taking over his route, he asked me to pass this along.”

“He said I was his favorite?” Steve parrots, like an idiot, genuinely touched.

Luckily, Stunning-Eyes just grins at him, and — Steve notes with a happy little thrill — leans against the door jamb, apparently not in the biggest rush to leave yet ( _thank god_ ).

But then, “Sorry,” Stunning-Eyes says, wincing apologetically. “I didn’t mean to go all fanboy on you.”

Steve chuckles. “Don’t worry about it,” he assures this gorgeousness. “You’re not even _close_ to the worst I’ve gotten.”

Gorgeousness _hmph_ s. “Still,” he insists through a wry smirk, “I’m supposed to be a professional. I don’t get rattled by _anyone_.”

Steve blinks. “Really?”

“Nope,” Stunning-Eyes says, shaking his head once, and popping the ‘p.’

Is he…is he _flirting_ with Steve?

Fuck, Steve _really_ hopes he is.

Deciding at once that this guy is absolutely worth it to take the chance and find out, Steve cocks his head a little and asks, “What makes me so special?”

“Mm,” Stunning-Eyes hums, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He uses his shoulder to push up off of the door jamb, standing up straight, still wearing that dazzling crooked smile. “Nope, that’s a trap.”

Steve laughs, loud and surprised. “A _trap?_ ” he asks, and Stunning-Eyes nods, grinning again.

“You’re gonna get me gushing,” he accuses, like this is Steve’s grand, evil scheme, “and I’m just gonna embarrass myself.” And then — _oh, and then_ — he lets his eyes slowly track all the way down Steve’s body, and then up again, before he leans in a little, and whispers conspiratorially, “Best to leave it alone.”

Steve’s heart and stomach both flutter. He can’t do anything but smile dopily at Stunning-Eyes, and for a moment, he could swear that dopey smile is returned right back to him.

But after that moment, Stunning-Eyes clears his throat.

“I really am sorry, though,” he says. “You’ve gotta get that _all_ the time. I imagine it gets old fast.”

Steve hums noncommittally, trying to remain polite, but he knows his eyebrows do something complicated, and the way this beautiful man’s stunning eyes crinkle in response tells Steve he knows exactly how much Steve agrees with that sentiment.

“Did they not tell you who I was?” Steve asks him, suddenly remembering the clipboard he’s holding, and hurrying to deposit the roses on his sideboard so he can sign the form on it.

“Nah,” Stunning-Eyes says, watching him with amusement. “Company policy, first names only. If we recognize you, we recognize you, but they don’t advertise the celebrities to us.” He accepts the clipboard back, eyes never leaving Steve’s. He’s been making eye contact nearly this entire time, actually. Really focused, sexy eye contact. “They do tell us the abilities of any supers, for safety reasons — just so we’re prepared — so I _did_ have my suspicions. But on my list, you’re just Steve.”

Steve laughs. “That is _fine_ with me,” he emphasizes. “I’d _much_ rather be called Steve than ‘Captain America.’”

Stunning-Eyes mumbles a laugh. And oh _fuck,_ that’s a nice sound. That’s the kinda sound a guy wants to hear hummed into his ear in bed. Preferably while buried inside the man making it. And fuck, Steve’s dick is starting to perk up again, shit—

But before Steve can embarrass himself _too_ much, Stunning-Eyes Barnes wets his sinfully perfect lips, glances down the hallway almost regretfully, and then turns back to rake his eyes over Steve once more.

“See you around, Steve,” he murmurs, low and sensual.

And then, just like that, he leaves.

Steve blatantly watches his pert, round ass bounce away in those stupid blue shorts, that _should not_ be doing that much for him, and is rewarded for his efforts by a sweet little smile thrown over this guy’s shoulder before he disappears into the staircase.

 _God_ , Steve feels like a teenager with a crush again. He sighs, absolutely, disgustingly twitterpated, and shuts his door so he can lean back against it, and _swoon_.

He’s so wrapped up in replaying every tiny moment — even the embarrassing ones — from the last ten minutes, that it takes a while before Steve remembers the flowers someone sent him.

Scooping them up off the sideboard, he wanders toward the kitchen to find a vase while searching for a card amongst the blooms. There is one, it turns out, but it doesn’t give him a clue to who’s sent him a massive bouquet of long stemmed red roses. There’s only a handwritten (by the florist, Steve is sure) note reading, ‘ _Be my Valentine?’_ with a scrawled heart, and an email address. SGRsecretadmirer@smail.com.

Steve drops the card onto his kitchen counter, unimpressed. If someone wants to woo him, he’d much rather they do it openly and courageously, to his face. Cheesy gestures, and email addresses he has to make the effort of reaching out to himself, aren’t exactly the way to Steve Rogers’ heart. Anyone who knows where he lives knows how to reach him, how to talk to him in person. This just feels…cowardly.

That’s uncharitable, Steve scolds himself, in what sounds an awful lot like his mother’s voice. Someone is trying to express feelings for him, and he just privately called them a coward.

 _Well_ , his own, heavily Brooklyn-accented voice argues right back, _if they don’t want me to think they’re a coward, maybe they shouldn’t woo me like a fuckin’ coward_.

His mother’s voice just sighs long-sufferingly inside his head.

Steve finds a vase, remarkably, and as he fills it with water, his thoughts drift away from the flowers, and the card, and the email address, and onto full lips, pulled into a smirk. Soft brown curls escaping their tie to dance across high cheekbones. Crinkled eyes, winter blue and sparkling like snow.

 _Fuck_ , Steve thinks. He really wishes he’d gotten this guy’s name.

═════ ✭❤︎❷❤︎✭ ═════

The envelope from Stan contains a sweet greeting card, which proudly sports a ridiculous pun, and a heartfelt message from the old man, along with his private phone number in case Steve wants to keep in touch. Steve calls him that night. They have a nice chat, and it’s good to hear how happy Stan sounds in retirement.

But Steve’s mind is still occupied, all night and well into the next day, by blue eyes, brown hair, pink lips, and a man whose first name he doesn’t even know. Patience has never been a strength of his, and the idea that he’s going to have to wait for another mail day to talk to Stunning-Eyes Barnes again is already gnawing at Steve’s composure. The ethics of contacting the service just to get this guy’s info, to ask him out after meeting him only once, are…questionable, at best. And asking Natasha to find him is worse. But by noon on February 2nd, Steve has already half-convinced himself that either option would be acceptable in this case, and that excruciating hotness justifiably constitutes an emergency.

And then, mid-afternoon, Steve’s doorbell rings.

His stomach swoops with excitement, _way_ too intensely over the mere possibility of seeing this guy who flirted with him for about five minutes _once_. But when Steve peeks through his peephole, and sees those stunning fucking eyes, the grin that splits his face is uncontrollable.

Stunning-Eyes grins right back at Steve when he opens the door to him.

“Me again,” he says warmly, holding out a generic stuffed bear holding a plush heart embroidered with the words, ‘ _Be Mine_ ,’ as well as his clipboard.

Steve takes both, dropping the bear on his sideboard without even really looking at it, opting instead to focus on the matter at hand. The _man_ at hand.

“Y’know,” Steve starts, bracing the clipboard against his door jamb to sign the form, “I don’t really think this is fair.”

One eyebrow cocks above those stunning eyes. “What’s not fair?” he asks, an amused lilt to his gorgeous voice.

Steve glances up at him mischievously. “You know my name,” he explains, “but I don’t know yours.”

This man’s flirty grin stretches out into a wide, genuine smile that takes over his entire face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and scrunching his nose adorably.

“Bucky,” he answers, almost a little shy about it. Steve wants to _keep_ him, Jesus Christ.

He hands the clipboard and form back over, and murmurs, “Thanks, Bucky.”

Bucky — _wow_ , what a cute fucking name for a cute fucking man — wets his lips, and giggles, god damn him. “You’re welcome, Steve,” he returns.

And then he _winks_ , and saunters off down the hall.

Steve watches him go, and accepts the reality that he is _done for_.

═════ ✭❤︎❸❤︎✭ ═════

On the third day of February, in the mid-afternoon, like clockwork, Steve’s doorbell rings.

He doesn’t even check through the peephole this time, which is fucking stupid and reckless, but he’s pretty sure he can handle it if it’s not who he thinks it is, and if it _is_ who he thinks it is, he doesn’t want to _wait_.

It’s who Steve thinks it is.

Bucky grins up at Steve, holding a huge bucket of some kind of bouquet. A bouquet that Steve pays absolutely no attention to, because all of his focus is locked on _Bucky_.

“Someone’s popular,” Bucky — his long, chestnut curls threaded into a braid draped over his left shoulder today — laughs in greeting, passing the bouquet bucket over.

Steve rolls his eyes and sighs. “I think someone’s trying to woo me,” he grumbles, and then finally looks at the thing he’s been sent. “What the fuck _is_ this?”

Bucky laughs again, brighter and louder. Steve loves that sound already, holy shit.

“It’s called an Edible Arrangement,” Bucky tells him.

Steve frowns at the mess of fruit and chocolate in his hands. “Why is the fruit shaped like hearts and flowers?”

“Beats me,” Bucky says, shrugging. He passes over the clipboard as Steve deposits the bucket on his sideboard. “They’re not cheap, either. But damn,” he moans, incredibly unfairly, “those chocolate-covered strawberries are to _die_ for.”

Steve’s eyes flick up from the form he hastily scrawls his signature on, scanning over the blissfully appreciative expression on Bucky’s lovely face, longing to see that expression in…other contexts.

“Yeah?” he asks, surprised at how rough his voice already sounds.

Bucky seems to notice it, too. He smiles, and his eyes glint with something…promising. “Trust me,” he purrs. It sends shivers down Steve’s spine.

Steve nods in agreement, and then reaches out and plucks one of the chocolate-covered strawberries off the bouquet. Slowly, watching Bucky’s face the entire time, he holds the strawberry out to him. An offering.

Bucky hesitates for half a second. He looks genuinely surprised that Steve would offer him anything. But when he looks up at Steve’s face again, there’s some kind of wonder in his eyes. He takes the strawberry.

And then — _oh and then, Jesus fuck_ — Bucky lifts the strawberry to his mouth, and bites into it right there. Steve’s breath catches in his throat. Bucky’s eyes don’t leave his for a moment.

It’s so _incredibly_ sexy. Bucky’s mouth wrapped in a soft ‘o’ around the fruit. The way the strawberry’s juice glosses his lips, makes them shine. Those silvery-blue eyes fluttering shut as Bucky fucking _moans_ at the taste.

Steve wants to feed him all the strawberries. Every strawberry. Wants to hold them in his fingers while Bucky does _that_ with them.

Bucky smiles like he knows _exactly_ what Steve is thinking right now. He winks at Steve again as he chews, tipping the rest of the strawberry to him like a toast before he’s walking away, his hips swaying invitingly all the way down the hall.

Yup. Steve is absolutely, delightedly _fucked_.

═════ ✭❤︎❹❤︎✭ ═════

The next day, Bucky arrives with a wrapped present.

“I gotta admit I’m curious,” he says while Steve signs for it. “None of the others have been wrapped yet.”

He’s leaning forward a little to peer at the present, already deposited on Steve’s sideboard, the few curls that have escaped the bun that rests at the nape of his neck today falling across his face. It’s possibly the cutest thing anyone has ever done. Steve has to fight the urge to lean in and meet him, give him a soft kiss on his exceptionally pretty forehead.

Helpful, Steve thinks wryly in the direction of his instincts. Helpful, and appropriate.

“You wanna see what it is?” he asks, instead of being the weirdo who kisses his delivery guy on the fucking forehead.

Bucky’s eyes light up, and he nods. He looks like a kid on Christmas. He’s _so fucking cute_.

“If you want,” he says, as though he’s feeling very casual about the whole thing, but he’s bouncing on his toes in anticipation.

Which is really just. _Upsettingly_ adorable.

Steve hands Bucky back the signed form, grabs the present off the sideboard, and rips open the heart-covered paper. There’s a plain, white box under the paper, and inside the box is—

“A gym bag?” Steve asks, nonplussed. It’s kind of small, black and brown genuine leather, but unmistakably a gym bag.

“Is that a Berluti?” Bucky asks. He reaches out to tilt the bag a little so he can read the label. He touches it _extremely_ gently, like he’s worried about breaking it, and he lets out a low whistle when his suspicions are confirmed. “Jesus fuck, that thing’s like three-and-a-half thou.”

“What?!” Steve squeaks. “For a _gym bag?!_ ”

Bucky nods solemnly. “Your secret admirer’s loaded, pal.” He sounds like he’s giving Steve bad news. And hell, maybe he is.

Steve snorts. “How do I send this back?” he pleads. “I can’t accept something like this.”

“Oh, fancy fruit’s fair game,” Bucky teases, “but leather’s where you draw the line?”

“Fancy fruit didn’t cost _thousands of dollars_ ,” Steve shoots back with a grin.

Bucky giggles. “Okay, fair,” he relents. He reaches out for the bag. “Just give it back to me. I’ll take it back to work, and someone’ll get it returned to your admirer.”

“Almost feel bad you had to make the trip out here, just for me to make you take it back,” Steve says apologetically, passing the stupid-expensive bag back over to Bucky.

But Bucky _blushes_ , and ducks his head. When he smiles up at Steve again, his eyes sparkle.

“Don’t,” is all he says, before he winks, and leaves.

═════ ✭❤︎❺❤︎✭ ═════

By the fifth day of February, Steve has gotten accustomed to seeing Bucky every day. Indeed, it’s quickly become his absolute _favorite_ part of each day.

Yes, Bucky is gorgeous, he really is. He’s gorgeous, sexy, flirty, cute—all of that. But he’s also funny, sweet, charming, _smart_. Steve only gets to see him for a few minutes a day, but in those few minutes, Bucky has begun to show Steve more and more of his personality. And _holy shit_ does Steve _really_ like what he sees.

It’s not enough, the few short moments he gets to spend with Bucky. It’s not enough, knowing that at some point, whoever is sending him daily gifts will see Steve’s continued refusal to reciprocate, and give up. And then Bucky won’t be coming over every day anymore. Steve really doesn’t want that to happen.

Bucky enjoys flirting with Steve, that much is clear. But is that all he wants? Technically, while he doesn’t work directly for Steve, he _is_ providing Steve a professional service, and Steve would rather eat his own kneecaps than try to push for something more with Bucky, just to end up making him feel uncomfortable and unsafe.

And there’s the rub, isn’t it? Steve wants nothing more than to ask Bucky in, to ask him to hang out, to ask him on a _date_. But he’s absolutely unwilling to cross any boundaries of Bucky’s, and he just…doesn’t know where those boundaries are. Back when he was young, people didn’t really flirt with Steve _ever_ , and now, people will flirt with him just for fun. It’s hard, with no real prior experience, to tell when that’s the case, or when someone is flirting with him with _intention_.

So, when Bucky rings the doorbell in the mid-afternoon on February 5th, Steve doesn’t ask him to come in and hang out for a while. Bucky’s on the clock, anyway, and Steve just isn’t willing to risk hurting him. He needs to be _sure_ that’s something Bucky would want before he makes that kind of move.

Today, Bucky’s hair is only half up, the front swept away from his beautiful face while the rest of his curls hang down to a few inches past his shoulders. God, Steve wants to get his hands in that hair, _fuck_.

Bucky’s also grinning up at Steve with this ridiculously sweet look on his face as soon as he opens the door, and that alone almost breaks his resolve entirely.

“Hi, Steve,” Bucky greets him cheerfully.

“Hi, Buck,” Steve says back, helpless not to shine what are probably obvious heart-eyes at him.

Bucky fucking _giggles_ at Steve just _saying hello to him, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_ , and passes over the white bakery box he’s holding.

Steve takes the box with a murmured thanks. He opens the lid to distract himself enough that he won’t blurt out something really stupid. Like, ‘ _PLEASECANIKISSYOU?!_ ,’ for example.

Inside the bakery box are twelve individually wrapped cookies, iced to perfection in an appropriate Valentine theme. There are conversation hearts, chubby, cherubic cupids, hearts with arrows stuck through them at a diagonal, and a few that are just shaped like the words, ‘ _Be Mine._ ’ They look _very_ fancy.

Knowing Bucky probably wants to see what’s inside, Steve turns the open box for him to look into before he has to ask.

Bucky’s eyes glance over the cookies. The tip of his tongue slips out to lick unconsciously over his lips. Steve has to clench his stomach muscles just to keep from darting forward and kissing those wet lips.

_Jesus Christ, Rogers, get it the fuck together!_

Instead of kissing his delivery guy _on the mouth, now,_ Steve scoops up half of the cookies from the box, drops them on his sideboard, and then hands the box back to Bucky, who takes it — but not without a great deal of bewilderment.

“You want me to return…half of your cookies for you?” he asks, utterly nonplussed, and it’s so cute, Steve can’t help but laugh.

“No,” he replies, “those are for you.”

When he looks back up at Steve, Bucky’s eyes are wide and unguarded, his eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead, and his pretty lips softly parted. “Wait, really?” he asks softly. “For me?”

Steve nods, a swell of deep affection warming his chest, his face…other parts of him.

“I can’t take these,” Bucky argues. But his voice is still soft, and his eyes fall back to these six iced cookies like they’re the greatest things he’s ever seen.

“Of course you can,” Steve tells him, shrugging like this is no big deal, even though the look on Bucky’s face is burrowing into his heart. He leans against the doorframe. “I don’t need twelve fucking cookies, I’m still eating all that chocolate from the fruit thing.”

“The Edible Arrangement,” Bucky supplies, still gazing at the cookies, still sounding punched out and breathless.

“Right,” Steve chuckles, “that. C’mon, Buck, take the cookies. I want you to have them.”

“But what about you?” Bucky asks, finally looking back up into Steve’s eyes. “Someone sent these to _you_.”

“I have six of them,” Steve points out, smiling gently. “I don’t even need _that_ many, to be honest. I’ll probably just give them to the Falcon, the Widow, and the Witch when I see them later tonight.”

That manages to change Bucky’s expression, making him glower up at Steve in exasperation.

“ _Please_ tell me you didn’t just tell your _delivery guy_ that you have an _op_ later tonight!” he begs, which makes Steve laugh harder.

“No, I—” he cackles, “I’m just seeing them later for a meeting. I’m not _that_ —stupid,” he finishes, catching himself _just_ before he lets out, ‘ _I’m not_ that _gone on you_.’

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Still think that’s probably classified,” he grumbles. There’s a light pink blush high on his cheeks. “Okay, fine, I’ll take the damn cookies.” Those pretty blue eyes flick up to meet Steve’s again, sweet, and bright, and happy. “Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know that he’s ever felt quite so warm as he does hearing this man, who he’s only known for five days, call him something as sweet as _Stevie_.

═════ ✭❤︎❻❤︎✭ ═════

On the 6th, while Steve signs the form for the pair of cashmere socks his secret admirer has kindly, if impersonally, sent him today, Bucky cocks his hip, and looks Steve up and down like he’s trying to decide something.

Steve glances at him, handing back the signed form. “Something wrong, Buck?” he asks, concerned.

“No,” Bucky answers right away, shaking his head. Then he scrunches his nose, and says, “It’s just—”

That’s it. Bucky doesn’t finish his sentence. Steve’s eyebrows furrow deeper.

“What’s up?” he coaxes, starting to get really worried, but Bucky shakes his head again.

“It’s fine, really,” he swears. “You just— You’ve never asked me about it.”

Steve tries to think about what the hell he’s been neglecting that would make Bucky look like _that_ , but he comes up empty.

“About what?”

In answer, Bucky gives him a wry look, and then pointedly glances at his lack of left arm.

 _Oh_.

Steve blinks. “Do people usually ask you about it?”

Bucky huffs out a short laugh, and it doesn’t sound like there’s much humor in it.

“Only like eighty percent of the people I deliver to, yeah,” he answers. “And that percentage goes _way_ up every time I repeat deliver, so if they’re a regular, yes, absolutely, they have asked.” He bites his lip. “Except for you.”

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, trying hard to tamp down the urge to go _fight these people_ who think they have a right to ask about something that not only _isn’t theirs to ask about_ , but could also be potentially deeply triggering for Bucky, depending on the circumstances of his amputation — either congenital _or_ acquired — and how he feels about it himself.

But Bucky’s still looking at Steve with that wary, calculating look in his eyes, so Steve wets his lips, and tries to explain himself clearly, but carefully.

“I don’t figure it’s any of my business to ask,” he answers honestly. “If you want to tell me, I’d be thrilled to know—well, _anything_ about you, Buck. But I only get a little bit of time with you, and god only knows when the honey pot’s gonna dry up,” he says, nodding toward his sideboard and the socks there. “I’m not about to ask you a question that might make you unnecessarily uncomfortable, no matter what it is. And I’m not gonna waste _any_ of my time with you trying to figure out something you may not even want me to know.”

It’s Bucky who blinks this time. The wariness on his face has dropped into open surprise. He looks _touched_ , somehow, like Steve has said anything more than just common fucking decency.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes. “I— Okay. Yeah. Um. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Steve insists. “Just because it’s visible doesn’t mean you owe anyone a story, least of all me. You _wanna_ tell me anything at all, I wanna listen. But I don’t need to know a single thing you don’t want to tell.”

It seems like Bucky may have been holding his breath until now, because it comes out in a long, steady exhale.

Silently, he nods.

Steve hands back the clipboard, and assumes Bucky’s about to say goodbye and go, like he always has to far too soon, but instead, Bucky bounces on the balls of his feet, hesitating again.

Steve doesn’t prompt him this time. Just waits for Bucky to speak.

When he does, it’s not what Steve is expecting.

“So, I know Stan had Mondays and Tuesdays off,” Bucky begins, “but my usual days off are Sundays and Mondays.”

“Oh,” Steve replies, lifting his eyebrows. Tomorrow is Sunday. And it’s sounding like that means no Bucky. That absolutely should not be making his heart sink, but god help him, it is.

“I’m actually gonna be working next Sunday,” Bucky continues, “because Valentine’s is a _huge_ delivery holiday, so in order to do the six days in a row, I don’t have a choice about taking my regular days off this week. But I’ll have Monday and Tuesday off next week to make up for it. I know your preferences are set so you only receive mail on days your regular driver is working, so I wanted to give you the heads up about my schedule, in case the change means you need…someone else to deliver to you.”

Steve heart stops sinking, and _clenches_ at that instead. “No!” he cries, _way_ too quickly. “No, I mean—that’s fine, I don’t have a strict schedule, anyway, and Sundays and Mondays without mail are fine with me.”

He says it all in a huge rush. But the happy relief on Bucky’s face means just about _everything_ to Steve. He doesn’t even remember to feel embarrassed.

“Okay,” Bucky breathes out in a gust. “Good, I’m really glad to hear that, Steve.”

God, that sweet, shy smile. Steve wants to fucking _swallow_ it.

“The other thing,” Bucky says, much more confident and cheerful than a moment ago, “is that, since you’re currently receiving daily deliveries, about half of which have been perishable food items or flowers, I think it would be a good idea to make an exception to your listed preferences this week, and have another driver available to deliver to you during my days off.” He pulls a second piece of paper, which Steve hadn’t noticed before, out from under the form Steve signed as he talks. “Would that be okay with you? I picked out someone I think you’ll get along with. Real sweet kid named Peter. I’ve known him forever, his family goes to my synagogue. He’s a little overly enthusiastic at times, but not in a way I think you’d really mind. Sassy little fucker, too.”

Steve grins. “Like someone else I know, then.”

Bucky takes great care to look innocent, and with how big and wide his eyes get, it almost works. Almost.

“Oh?” he asks. “Who would that be?”

Steve laughs, and Bucky beams. Like he’s _proud_ of making Steve laugh. Like he doesn’t have a clue just _how gone_ Steve is on him.

“That’s okay, then?” Bucky asks. “If so, I’ve got Peter’s credentials and photos here for you. To avoid the way you met me,” he clarifies, a warm little glint in his eyes.

“There’s _nothing_ I minded about the way I met you,” Steve tells him truthfully. He revels in the way that makes Bucky’s cheeks flush pink again. “And yeah, Buck, that sounds good. Thank you for doing all that for me.”

Bucky shrugs, which definitely looks like an excuse to retreat bashfully into his shoulders like a cute little turtle.

“It’s my job,” he replies quietly, and passes over the sheet of paper with Peter’s credentials.

Steve doesn’t look at it at all just yet. He’ll have time for that after Bucky’s gone. For now, as ridiculous as it is, all he wants to do is memorize every little thing about this man before he disappears from Steve’s life for two days.

It makes Steve’s heart soar to realize that, standing there just outside Steve’s doorway, and making absolutely no move to leave just yet, Bucky may just want exactly the same thing.

═════ ✭❤︎❼❽❾❤︎✭ ═════

The following two days pass by, and Steve does a shit job of convincing himself he _isn’t_ sad about missing a man he’s only known for a week. Peter is, as Bucky described him, a real sweet kid. He does a great job of not gushing at Steve when he first sees him, though his eyes _are_ the size of saucers when he stares up at Steve as he opens the door. But Steve is impressed by his restraint, considering how transparent his urge to ‘fanboy’ is, as Bucky put it. But then, just when Steve thinks he’s got Peter figured out, the kid fucking _sasses him_ right before he leaves.

Bucky was right. Steve likes him a lot.

Not enough to keep him from missing Bucky an inordinate amount.

Steve feels like this is probably stupid. He barely even knows Bucky, all things considered. Missing him this much _must_ be stupid.

Funny thing is, though — Steve doesn’t fucking care.

Missing Bucky this much, in just two goddamn days, actually helps to clear Steve’s mind a little. Bucky’s absence is so incredibly stark, and Steve has no desire to feel it quite like this again, not if Bucky doesn’t want it to, either. Next time, he at _least_ wants to have the kid’s phone number.

He’ll find out how Bucky feels about all this on Tuesday, Steve supposes.

And then Tuesday rolls around, and Steve wakes up feeling like it’s Christmas morning.

 _I get to see Bucky today_ , he thinks gleefully. Two days of absence has made up his mind. He may not be ready to ask Bucky out and risk making him uncomfortable, but that doesn’t mean Steve has to settle for barely knowing him at all.

His doorbell rings, as expected, in the mid-afternoon, and Steve doesn’t even try to disguise the fact he’s been practically waiting by the door to open it the second Bucky arrives.

He swings the door open, and _Bucky is there_. The air is immediately sucked out of the room. Out of the building. The entire city. Bucky’s here. He’s _right here_. And Steve’s heart stops.

“Hey,” Bucky says softly, grinning hard, his eyes crinkled, his nose gently scrunched. Steve feels his face heat up just from looking at this kid.

“Hi,” he responds, smiling dopily back. Bucky’s whole face tinges pink.

They’re both fucking ridiculous, Steve thinks happily, just standing here, staring at each other. Bucky looks _amazing_ today, somehow even hotter than usual. He’s wearing the same uniform he always is, disguised as a USPS driver, but there’s something about him today that just shines absolutely radiant beauty in an unearthly kind of way. Steve is taken aback by him.

His pretty curls are loose and bouncy today, not even pinned back for the first time that Steve has seen. They frame his face, highlight the shock of his pale blue eyes, the sharp jut of his cheekbones, make his lips seem almost red. Red, and incredibly kissable.

The way Bucky’s looking up at him right now, Steve wonders if he’d really mind so much after all, if Steve cradled his jaw in one palm, ducked down, pressed their lips together....

“How was your weekend?” Steve asks in a rush, because no, he can’t just _do that_ , Christ. “I mean your days off?”

“They were fine,” Bucky answers, his eyes so fucking soft as he keeps gazing up at Steve with singular focus. “Pretty chill. My buddies came over on Sunday, and we just watched movies and talked shit all day.”

Something about that makes Bucky’s face flush darker. Steve desperately wants to know _why_ , but he doesn’t ask.

Bucky wets his lips nervously, and adds, “I missed—” For a moment, it looks like he’s going to chicken out of saying it. Deflect, and switch to a different word, something else that he could have missed that would be safer. But then resolve hardens in his beautiful eyes. And with a heartbreakingly vulnerable smile playing on his sweet, red lips, he finishes, “You. I missed you.”

Any air that was left in Steve’s lungs rushes out all at once. “I missed you, too, Buck,” he confesses fervently. “I really did.”

Bucky looks relieved. He looks _delighted_. Steve’s heart swells for this man before him.

“Was Pete okay?” Bucky asks with a warm smile. “He do a good job?”

“He was great,” Steve assures him. “Everything you said about him held up, and then some. I liked him.”

“I’m glad,” Bucky says. Very clearly means it. “If you want, he can be your back-up driver in case I have to call out sick, or take vacation time, or something.”

“That sounds great.”

They fall into silence again, shining gooey smiles at each other. Until Steve realizes he hasn’t even _looked_ at what Bucky’s holding, just standing out here in the hall.

“Shit,” he curses, reaching out for the square, pink box Bucky’s cradling, “let me take that.”

“Hold it from the bottom,” Bucky instructs as he passes it over.

It’s obviously another order from a bakery, but this one is much heavier than the cookies from the other day. Steve opens the lid a crack to a half dozen painstakingly decorated cupcakes. They smell amazing.

“Think my secret admirer’s just trying to fatten me up to eat me?” he jokes, flipping the lid all the way open and angling the box so Bucky can see inside it.

Bucky laughs. “Hell, if they are, at least they’re getting you the good stuff,” he returns. “Those cookies were _insane_.”

“Did you like them?” Steve asks, incredibly pleased, taking the clipboard as usual to sign the form.

“I liked them so much, I _hid_ them from my buddies so they wouldn’t steal them,” Bucky admits, grinning. “I liked them so much, I ate the last one for breakfast this morning.”

Steve hands the clipboard back, and Bucky takes it, but doesn’t start to leave. That’s a good sign, Steve thinks, biting his lip against the fluttering in his stomach. He refuses to chicken out.

“Do you wanna come in?” Steve asks, trying to sound casual enough, like maybe he just thought to offer the invitation, and not like his happiness hinges on Bucky’s answer, or anything. “I was gonna make some coffee.” He absolutely wasn’t, but _who cares?_ Steve will make Bucky coffee. He’ll make Bucky _anything_.

Bucky blinks. Open surprise and evident desire all over his face. But he hesitates. “I have more deliveries to get through today,” he equivocates reluctantly.

Steve smirks, and leans against the doorframe. “You don’t get breaks?”

It makes Bucky laugh, which was the goal.

“As long as everything I load into the truck in the morning is delivered by the end of the day,” Bucky says, “I can do whatever I want.”

Steve’s smirk pulls into a grin. “Okay,” he replies. “Do you have enough time left today to deliver everything if you come in and spend fifteen minutes with me?”

Somehow, that question elicits an even _bigger_ laugh from Bucky. “Cap,” he replies dryly, “I was JSOC. I could deliver everything in time if I came in and spent an _hour_ with you.”

“All right, then, half an hour,” Steve haggles. “We’ll split the difference.”

Bucky’s smile is gigantic, and when Steve steps back to make room, he crosses the threshold. It shouldn’t make Steve’s heart race the way it is.

“Well,” Bucky reasons, toeing out of his shoes and making Steve _giddy_ , “they don’t call you the most brilliant tactical mind in a century for nothin’, do they?”

“Who calls me that?” Steve asks, gesturing for Bucky to follow him into the kitchen.

Bucky rolls his eyes at the question. “Everyone. Don’t be cute.”

“Can’t help it,” Steve shoots back over his shoulder, shrugging rakishly, and feeling like he’s floating. _Bucky is in his house!_ “I’m always cute.”

It’s likely that Bucky doesn’t actually mean for Steve to hear his reply. He may not have accounted for Steve’s exceptional hearing at all. Because from over his shoulder, Steve hears Bucky mutter under his breath, “Can’t argue with that.”

 _Holy shit_. Steve expects, in this moment, he could fly if he tried.

In the kitchen, Steve pulls out one of the chairs from his small, circular kitchen table for Bucky to sit while he makes coffee. The table is situated under the kitchen’s large window, dappled with sunlight. It’s a pleasant place to quietly have breakfast in the mornings, a place to be alone with his thoughts, enjoy his own company for a moment, before Steve’s mind becomes too crowded to enjoy the quiet anymore.

But then Bucky sits down at Steve’s kitchen table, bathed and cradled in golden sunlight that kisses his skin the way Steve longs to do, too, and any desire to ever sit there alone again vanishes. Steve is ruined for it all.

All he wants is Bucky.

Steve has to internally shake himself off from that thought before he loses himself too much to staring at the sun on Bucky’s skin. He starts puttering about, going through the process of making coffee, and trying to get a hold of himself.

Steve still uses a stovetop percolator, even though that usually provokes ruthless teasing from his friends. He doesn’t mind, though, it’s not like he doesn’t know _how_ to use modern coffee makers. But Steve doesn’t actually feel the effects of caffeine anymore. Not since the serum. So the act of making coffee in his home isn’t a means to an end, so much as it is a meditative process. He enjoys the taste still, even if using a percolator achieves a drier and more bitter brew. It’s what he’s used to. He’s only lived in the twenty-first century for a few years, he spent an entire lifetime before that with stovetop percolators.

“Do you mind me asking what you got the past two days?” Bucky asks, breaking through Steve’s meditative focus as he hand-grinds the beans (his manual grinder is modern and streamlined, but the process is the same as it always was). “From your mystery lover? I’m super curious about it, to be honest.”

Steve chuckles at the mugs he’s now pulling out the cupboard. “Sunday,” he begins, “it was an aged ribeye steak. I sent that one back.”

Bucky snorts. “I guess it _is_ kinda weird to accept some mystery person’s meat,” he giggles.

Steve almost chokes on his own spit. “Okay, that is _not_ what I was thinking,” he cackles.

“No?” Bucky asks lightly. Steve glances at him, and he’s all wide-eyed, fake innocence. He looks so fucking good sitting at Steve’s kitchen table. The room suits him. The entire apartment does. “What were you thinking, then?”

“I was _thinking_ that I can’t fucking cook, so something like that is wasted on me.”

“Hmm,” Bucky hums thoughtfully. “Gotta say, Stevie, it doesn’t sound like your mystery lover knows you very well.”

Steve makes a little noise of wry agreement. “On that note, yesterday, it was a gigantic candle that, according to Peter, costs almost a hundred dollars.”

“What’d you do with that one?”

“Sent it back,” Steve replies, taking the percolator off the stove and dumping the coffee grounds. “What am I gonna do with something like that? I think I gave Peter a very strange idea of who I am as a person. Cream and sugar?”

Bucky laughs softly, propping his elbow on the table so he can lean his head on his fist. “Both, please. And I’m sure Pete was charmed.”

“What makes you think that?” Steve asks while he grabs the half-and-half from his refrigerator door.

He catches a glimpse of Bucky’s open, almost adoring expression just as he turns back to the coffee mugs, and it makes his freeze.

“Because I was,” Bucky answers softly.

Steve can’t breathe. He’s not sure he was supposed to hear that, either, and he has _no_ idea if he should follow up on that and just fucking _ask this guy out_ already, or — if he _wasn’t_ supposed to hear that — pretend nothing’s happened, and—

Bucky saves Steve from his spiral, though, by speaking again. His voice is teasing now, instead of the soft fondness from a moment ago.

“He didn’t fawn over you? I’m pretty sure Pete sleeps in Captain America pajamas at _least_ half the time.”

Steve snorts. He stirs both cups while he replies, “He just barely managed to hold himself back.”

“Wow.” Bucky sounds genuinely impressed. “Grasshopper’s come a long way.”

Steve doesn’t ask why Peter is a grasshopper. He’ll google it later. Instead, he replaces the half-and-half in the fridge, and turns back to Bucky.

“So, JSOC, huh?” he asks while he picks the mugs up from the counter.

Bucky nods. “Army.” Then he stands, snaps to attention, and salutes. “Lieutenant James Barnes, sir,” he barks.

Steve grins. Pokes Bucky’s shin with his toes so Bucky’ll break the salute and take the coffee cup Steve is trying to hand him. “And yet you told me your name is Bucky,” he points out.

Bucky laughs in response. “Do you have _any_ idea how many Jameses there are in the world?” he demands as they both sit down on either end of the small table. “In my squad alone, there were _three_ of us, and only Jim went by anything even close to it.”

Steve hums around his swallow of coffee. “Jim, Bucky, and…?” he prompts.

“Monty,” Bucky answers, his grin widening when Steve laughs. “Monty was SAS,” he explains. “ _Extremely_ British, it suited him. We also had Frenchie, who was COM FST. The rest of us were Americans — Jim was USAF, and Gabe, Dum-Dum, and I were US Army.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow slightly at all the past-tense. “Are they…?” he asks carefully.

“Oh, they’re fine!” Bucky assures him quickly when he realizes what Steve’s inferred. “Those are the guys I had over on Sunday, actually. Sorry, we’re all just out of the service now. Somehow, none of us actually died out there.”

Steve smiles again, genuinely relieved. “I’m glad.”

Bucky nods. “Anyway, that’s how—” He jerks his head towards his missing arm.

True to his word, Steve doesn’t ask. He waits to see if Bucky wants to talk about it on his own, but Bucky seems to be waiting, too. After a pause, Bucky glances up from his coffee to Steve, hesitant, and looking almost…hurt.

“You still haven’t asked me about it,” he says in an unusually small voice.

Steve frowns. “Do you _want_ me to ask you about it?” he asks. He thought he was respecting Bucky’s privacy, he never wanted Bucky to feel like he didn’t _care_.

Bucky chews on his lip. “Kind of, yeah,” he answers with a little, self-deprecating smile. “Most people, no way. Would rather fight a bear, unarmed, one-armed, and dressed just like this. But you?” He looks at Steve, thoughtful, and vulnerable, and beautiful. “I’d like you to know,” he breathes.

Steve is speechless as Bucky looks at him like that. And before he has a chance to gather the words to respond, Bucky blinks, flashes a crooked grin, and sniffs, “Honestly just offended you’re not even _curious_.”

He’s trying to turn it into a joke again, but Steve can see through it. He can tell Bucky’s still serious about this, that he really is hurt Steve’s not curious about him.

Steve fixes that beautiful idiot with a gentle smile over his coffee cup. “Never said I wasn’t curious,” he says.

Bucky _hmph_ s, and looks back down into his coffee.

Steve wets his lips. “Hey, Buck?” he asks.

“Yeah, Steve?”

“What happened to your arm, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Bucky keeps looking down into his coffee, but a slow, pleased smile spreads across his face.

“Well,” he begins, and then looks back up at Steve. “Briefly, we were across enemy lines, on an SR mission.” He cocks his head a little, like he’s realizing something. “This is usually where I say that I can’t tell you where, or what we were doing, because it’s still highly fuckin’ classified, but you may be the one person I ever tell this story to — outside of a mission debrief, of course — who actually has the clearance for it.”

That startles a laugh from Steve. “Let’s just hold off until we find that out for sure, huh?” he reasons. “Don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“Don’t think I _could_ ,” Bucky retorts. “When Captain America asks you for something, you deliver, you know?” And with that, he fucking _bites his lip_ , giving Steve a dark, hungry look.

Steve sucks in a breath through his nose. His voice comes out husky when he says, “You were saying?” trying to get them back on topic, because _holy shit he cannot deal with_ that _right now._

“Right,” Bucky answers, like he’s lost his train of thought, and he’s trying to get it back. “I was saying. Uh…we were on this SR mission, and we were made. We had enemy forces breaking into the building we were operating out of, and the whole squad was trying to get out through this really narrow tunnel we’d dug as a fail-safe. Four of the six of us were still on the wrong side of that tunnel when I realized that there wasn’t gonna be enough time for us all to get out. And that if we all tried, they’d just follow us. We needed to seal the exit, so that those of us who were able, could get out. And I was the CO,” Bucky says matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t gonna let these guys take the fall for me.”

He takes a breath, staring into nothingness for a moment. Steve recognizes the look on his face as memories clearly flood his mind. His heart aches for this brave, beautiful boy.

“I, um…,” Bucky continues. “I made sure they got out, and then I blew up the mouth of the tunnel.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, and shrugs. “Sitting duck.”

Steve nods, but doesn’t say anything. He can’t say that, in the exact same position, he would have done a single thing differently.

Bucky smiles at him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Spent a little over a year as a POW,” he keeps going, still speaking in a straightforward, plain way, and Steve understands that, too. You recount the times that hurt the most with the least amount of investment. Like that’ll protect you from them. “Um, they broke my arm pretty early on, trying to get me to give up my squad. Bone didn’t set right, eventually infection set in. After that point, I don’t remember too much, until I woke up in a hospital stateside.

“My own squad, actually, had rescued me. It’d taken them a while to find out where I was, but they got me, and they got me home. By the time I woke up, my arm was already gone. They had to, or I woulda’ died. It wasn’t like it had worked in nearly a year, but still.” Bucky shrugs again. “Sucked.”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes with conviction. “I can’t imagine.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Anyway, I got the honorable discharge — and the POW medal, and the purple heart, and even the goddamn Medal of Honor, for all the good it does me.” The first hint of bitterness that Steve’s heard from him has seeped into his voice. “And every single one of my guys ended up leaving at the end of their tours. I honestly think we were all fucking traumatized by the whole ordeal, and the only reason any of them signed on for another tour after my capture was because they couldn’t leave me out there.”

Bucky’s eyes are fixed, starting into emptiness again as he mutters, “I’ll never be able to thank them for saving me, not in a way that matters. They did so much shit to get me back, and that’s the _only_ reason I’m alive right now.”

“You saved them, too,” Steve points out softly. “You gave yourself up to give them a chance. I’d be willing to wager that’s why you got the Medal of Honor.”

Again, Bucky shrugs. “I wouldn’t’ve been able to live with myself any other way,” he confesses.

Steve nods. “That’s something I can relate to.”

Bucky’s eyes finally meet Steve’s again. After a moment, a tiny smile tugs at his lips.

Steve reaches out, across the table, and takes Bucky’s hand in his. “Thank you for telling me, Bucky,” he whispers sincerely.

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand. “Thank you for listening, Steve.”

They stay like that for a moment. Just holding each other’s hands. It’s so nice, and Bucky’s hand is so warm, and Steve wants everything. He wants _everything_ with this man.

“Do you want a cupcake?” Steve asks Bucky abruptly, suddenly possessed with the need to give him something, anything.

It surprises a loud laugh from Bucky. Somewhere in there, Steve’s pretty sure he gets the affirmative, so he gives Bucky’s hand one last squeeze, and then stands up to go get the box of cupcakes his secret admirer sent him.

Halfway through eating his cupcake, an endearing dot of frosting smeared across the tip of his nose, Bucky looks up at Steve with those big blue eyes, and says, “You know, I don’t think your mystery lover’d be too pleased to find out you keep sharing everything they send you with your delivery guy.”

Steve shrugs, fixing Bucky with an intently focused look. “What can I say?” he asks softly. “I think courting’s better done out in the open. Face to face.”

He really hopes that Bucky understands what he means. That Steve would _so_ rather court Bucky than be courted by anyone else in the entire world. That he wants this. Wants _Bucky_. Steve really fucking hopes Bucky understands. He really fucking hopes he agrees.

From the way Bucky stares back at him, eyes huge and hopeful, and lips slightly parted, Steve thinks that, maybe, there’s a chance he does.

═════ ✭❤︎❿❤︎✭ ═════

Steve thinks about Bucky for the entire rest of the day on Tuesday after he leaves, and when he falls asleep that night, his dreams are plagued with images of the man — this lovely, kind, brave man — thin, and weak, and bruised. Delirious with pain, trapped at the mercy of his captors. Alone, with no way to know whether he’ll ever be rescued, or left there to die.

Steve barely sleeps at all.

So, on Wednesday the 10th, when Bucky rings the doorbell and Steve opens the door to his smiling face, just the mere sight of him feels like a relief.

Still, Steve’s dreams are haunting him in his wakefulness, and he doesn’t hesitate, as he’s accepting the large, cellophane-wrapped basket of various luxury bath items, to invite Bucky in for coffee again.

Bucky makes a sad little scrunchy face at the invitation, passing Steve the clipboard. He seems to scrunch his nose for just about any emotion, and it’s literally the best thing Steve has ever seen.

“I can’t,” Bucky sighs. “I have tons of deliveries to get through today, and not many hours left before six o’clock and quittin’ time. I can’t risk taking a break right now. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Steve assures him. “You do what you have to.”

Bucky hums, wearing a sad little smile. “Wish I could,” he admits.

Steve passes the clipboard back to him, and considers what he’s about to say. Bucky looks downcast, and Steve would do just about anything to cheer him up. He just doesn’t know what Bucky needs from him, and he really, _really_ wishes he did.

“You know,” Steve tells him carefully, watching his face to gauge his reaction, “you could always leave me for last. Y’know, if you wanted to have more time. For coffee. I wouldn’t mind.”

Bucky’s responding smile is warm and genuine, and it makes Steve feel warm, too. “Nah,” he says, shaking his head, “I gotta get back to return the truck and clock out at the end of the day. And besides, I like seeing you in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Why?”

Bucky shrugs. “Mornings are always busy,” he explains, “I’d have to rush off right away, couldn’t stop to chat. But they’re okay, because I’m just getting started, and even if I’m having a bad day, with the...you know…,” he nods toward his left shoulder in a gesture that Steve immediately recognizes as encompassing the whole of his physical pain and his PTSD, “or dealing with a lot of jerks, I’ve got lunch to look forward to, so I can deal with that. Lunch is just enough time to recenter, plus I _eat_ , so I get enough of a boost to push me through the first few hours of the afternoon, and if I’ve got jerks _then_ , that’s all right, because then I come here.”

Bucky looks up at Steve with a look so sweet, it hurts Steve’s chest.

“And it’s funny,” he says, almost wistful, “because even on my _really_ bad days, you still manage to make me laugh, Stevie.”

Steve blinks, taken aback by that. “Really?” he asks in disbelief. “I didn’t think I’d seen you on a bad day.”

For some reason, that makes Bucky blush _hard._ He scrunches his nose, and his smile turns wry and self-deprecating as he simply says, “You have.”

Steve’s eyes widen. Either Bucky has been hiding his struggles from Steve _much_ more than Steve realized before now, or—

Or Bucky is telling him that merely _seeing_ Steve for just a few minutes makes him happy, even when he’s being swallowed by the aftermath of his trauma.

Holy _god_.

Steve has no idea what to say to convey how deeply that touches him. How much that _means_ to him. And before he can figure it out, Bucky is smirking at him the way he does every time he tries to cover up his flayed-open heart with a joke.

“It’s really gonna throw off my schedule when your mystery lover gives up on you,” he teases. And they’ve only known each other for ten days, but Steve already knows Bucky well enough to see the absolute truth of that in his eyes.

Steve gives Bucky a soft smile. Feels so much the same, he can’t even explain it. “Well, then,” he answers decisively. “I guess I’m gonna hafta start workin’ on developing an online shopping habit, aren’t I?”

The huge, dazzling smile that takes over Bucky’s face in response is, Steve is absolutely sure, the most beautiful thing in the entire world.

“Aw, shucks, Cap,” Bucky purrs, face pink with his blush, practically kicking at the carpet in his demureness. “You don’t gotta do that for lil ole me.”

“Oh, okay,” Steve says, cracking a grin when Bucky pouts up at his casual dismissal. He leans forward so he and Bucky are only a few inches apart, and murmurs, “Guess I’ll have to do it for selfish reasons, then.”

Somehow, Bucky flushes even deeper, blue eyes wide with wonder. He laughs breathlessly, and drops his eyes, muttering so softly under his breath that Steve, once again, can’t tell if he’s meant to hear it or not, “ _Fuck_. I’m in so much trouble.”

And then Bucky looks back up into Steve’s eyes, still so close to his, and doesn’t step back at all.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” he asks softly.

Steve nods. “You better.”

For half a second, Bucky’s arm twitches, like he might be trying to reach for Steve’s hand, but he aborts the gesture almost immediately. Not content to let that lie, Steve completes it for him, reaching out and taking Bucky’s eager hand in his own.

They stand like that for a moment. Just holding hands. Just close to each other. Steve aches for more. Aches for everything. But _loves_ this.

Reluctantly, and at the same moment, they both let go.

Bucky grants Steve one of his gorgeous, scrunched-nose, crinkled-eyes smiles, and then turns, and walks away.

Shutting his door, Steve’s eyes fall on the basket of bath products sent to him by his secret admirer. He’s not really a bath person himself, usually preferring the efficiency of a shower to the indulgence of sitting in the tub for an extended time. But his mind recalls Bucky’s words yesterday, pointing out how Steve has been sharing so much of what he’s been given with Bucky, and an image flashes behind his eyes.

An image of himself, leaned over his huge, neglected tub, full to the brim with water and bubbles, and Bucky, naked, relaxing inside, while Steve bathes him and washes his hair.

 _Fuck_. Steve wants this guy _bad_.

═════ ✭❤︎⓫❤︎✭ ═════

The next day, Bucky seems to be in a melancholy mood. He’s just staring into space while Steve signs for his fucking _velvet smoking jacket with silk lining_. Yes, he should probably send this one back, too, but it’s really soft and he actually really likes the idea of wearing it and nothing else. _Maybe_ as he’s lounging on his favorite armchair while Bucky kneels, naked and submissive, between his knees, waiting for orders—

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asks, trying hard to pull himself from that particular mental image before his dick and his loose sweatpants conspire to humiliate him in front of the guy he likes.

Bucky takes the clipboard back, looking surprised to be pulled from his own reverie. “Hmm?” he asks. “Yeah, Steve, I’m fine.”

He flashes Steve a little smile, but it’s not convincing.

“You wanna come in for coffee?” Steve asks, even though Bucky already warned him he has a lot of deliveries today.

“I wish I could. I’d love to, but I just can’t today. Maybe tomorrow?”

Bucky looks so hopeful, and Steve wants him so bad.

“Absolutely,” Steve enthuses. “I can’t wait.”

This time, Bucky’s smile is genuine.

Steve waits while Bucky lingers at his door, seemingly reluctant to leave, and equally reluctant to stay. He’s opening his mouth to ask, again, what’s wrong, when Bucky suddenly cuts him off with a question of his own.

“Any idea who it is?”

Steve raises his eyebrows, surprised. He was not expecting that. “Someone I know, I guess,” he answers. He doesn’t need clarification to know that Bucky’s asking about his secret admirer. “No one else would know where to send me shit.”

“Right,” Bucky agrees with a preoccupied nod. “That makes sense.” His face is downcast. With a flutter of his heart, Steve wonders if Bucky could possibly be upset for the reasons Steve _really_ hopes for. Not that he wants Bucky to be hurt, quite the contrary, but if it’s because he’s jealous, Steve can easily set him right.

“I haven’t tried to figure it out beyond that,” he blurts out.

Bucky looks up at him quickly, almost startled. “No?” he asks. It sounds like he’s trying not to hope. Or maybe Steve’s just projecting. “Why not?”

“I don’t care who it is, Buck,” Steve tells him fervently. ”I’m not interested in them.”

Bucky—he _gasps_. Just barely, and quietly through his nose, so if Steve weren’t really paying attention, he might not have noticed. But it’s there. Steve, fully attuned to every tiny muscle twitch in the man before him, notices.

Bucky wets his lips. “How—how do you know you aren’t? You don’t even know who they are.”

Steve desperately wants to tell him the entire truth: that he knows he’s not interested in his admirer because he’s only, desperately, exclusively interested in _Bucky_. He wants to say it so badly, but _it won’t come out of his mouth_.

“You said it yourself,” he hears himself saying instead, “they don’t seem to know me very well. And all they’re doing is sending me things, and expecting me to eventually email their cryptic email account. It doesn’t endear me to them, I have to say.”

Bucky laughs, even though there’s something very much like disappointment buried deep in his eyes. “You think they’re a coward,” he susses, because apparently he already knows Steve pretty well, too.

Steve snorts. “Maybe,” he admits.

He can’t stop focusing on that disappointment, though. He _has_ to make that stop.

“Also,” he adds, his heart racing faster than it has since a serum took away his murmur, “I _know_ I’m not interested in them, no matter who they are. Any interest I have lies…elsewhere.”

Okay, so maybe Steve is a fucking coward, too. He can’t get his mouth to say what his heart is _screaming_. So he really fucking hopes the way he’s staring down at Bucky — the _want_ he knows is plastered all over his face — comes through.

Bucky stares back at him, eyes wide, that same want so clear all over his face, too. Blue eyes glittering, he smiles.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Steve,” he whispers.

And then, all at once, he’s gone.

═════ ✭❤︎⓬❤︎✭ ═════

Thank the lord and all that is holy, on the 12th, Bucky accepts Steve’s offer for coffee again. He seems in much higher spirits today, chatting amiably at the kitchen table while Steve babysits the percolator. He’s just got done telling Steve about the client he delivered to right before coming here, whom he has dubbed ‘Jerkface’ and who Steve is definitely going to punch if he ever finds out who it is. But even though Jerkface was a dick to him not half an hour ago, Bucky’s laughing about it already.

Based on what he said the other day, Steve can’t help but wonder if Bucky being here with him has anything at all to do with that.

“Christ,” Steve sighs in sympathy at the end of Bucky’s story. “Guy sounds like an asshole.”

Bucky chuckles, and hums in agreement. “Not my favorite client, I gotta say.”

Steve shoots a smile in his direction as the percolator finishes. “I wanna offer you a beer after that, but—”

“But I still have to drive a delivery truck for another coupla’ hours, yeah,” Bucky laughs. _God, Steve loves that laugh_.

Steve fixes their coffee the way Bucky likes it, and brings them both over to the table, sitting down across from him. “You could always—come over sometime,” he offers, trying to sound casual as he focuses on stirring his coffee. As though the tan whirlpool he’s creating is deeply fascinating. “When you’re not working.”

When Steve glances up, Bucky is gazing at him with big, happy eyes, just shy of actually bursting into cartoon hearts. “Yeah?” he asks breathlessly.

Steve nods eagerly. “Yeah.”

“All right.” Bucky says coyly. “We’ll see.”

But the way he tucks his lips under his teeth to bite down on his smile makes Steve think that that could, possibly, be code for ‘ _yes_.’

═════ ✭❤︎⓭❤︎✭ ═════

By the time Steve wakes up on February 13th, his mind is made up.

Ostensibly, he’s only got two days left of daily gifts from his admirer, since tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, presumably the culmination of this endeavor. After that, he’ll still see Bucky whenever he gets normal mail, but to be honest, that’s not very often for Steve. This arrangement where they get to see each other every day will cease after tomorrow.

Bucky was so reluctant to leave yesterday. He had to go, had deliveries to make, but it was extremely obvious that all he wanted was to stay. And Steve wanted that, too. He _really_ did. Wanted Bucky to stay for the rest of time, if possible.

He’s starting to wonder if Bucky wants _Steve_ to make the first move, for some reason. If _that’s_ why he hasn’t made one himself. If Bucky is just as interested as he is, but he’s been waiting for Steve. There’s only one way to find out the answer, and Steve has decided to do it today, before all of this ends. He won’t go days without seeing Bucky, or having each other’s phone numbers to text one another at the very least. He refuses to.

And besides, it would be kind of romantic if his and Bucky’s first date (first, hopefully, of many) was on Valentine’s Day.

And so, Steve is resolved. When Bucky comes to his door today, he’s gonna do it. He’s gonna _finally_ ask him out.

But when Steve opens the door to him, later than he usually comes, Bucky doesn’t look okay at all.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says softly, trying for a smile. He looks pale today, dark circles prominent under his eyes. He’s almost gaunt, really. And haggard, like he didn’t sleep at all. He holds out a small box for Steve to take, but Steve barely glances at it before dumping it on his sideboard, and reaching out to feel Bucky’s forehead instead.

He’s checking for fever on instinct, but Bucky leans into his touch. Sags forward like he’s desperate for Steve to hold him up, to take the burden of standing from him.

“God, Buck, what’s wrong?” Steve murmurs. “Come inside, please, honey.”

The endearment slips out on accident, but right now, Steve just doesn’t fucking care. And Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice, he’s so far gone to whatever this is.

“I’ve got deliveries,” he protests weakly, already stepping forward.

Steve guides him the rest of the way inside, and pulls him into a solid hug. “Just for a minute,” he breathes into Bucky’s curls, frizzy and disheveled today, tied in a haphazard bun that’s coming apart on his head.

Bucky’s arm snakes around Steve’s waist, his hand fists in the back of Steve’s tee. “Okay,” he whispers, burying his nose against Steve’s collarbone.

Steve manages to get Bucky nestled into the corner of his sectional couch, his softest blanket pulled off of his bed and draped around Bucky’s shoulders. He makes tea while Bucky sits there quietly. It’s a holdover from his ma, to whom every problem could be solved with a cup of tea and a listening ear. And she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Mug of tea now gripped tightly in his hand, Bucky slowly inhales the steam rising from the cup, and finally lifts his pale blue eyes to meet Steve’s.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks him softly, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair out of those pretty eyes. “You look like you’re goin’ through it today, pal.”

One corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches, but there isn’t much humor in it. He really looks worn down.

“I’m, uh,” he begins, and then swallows and wets his lips, like his mouth is dry. “I’m having a bad day.”

Steve hums. “Looks like it. PTSD?”

Bucky nods. “And phantom pain,” he says. “Feels like my arm is still broken and infected, and it’s not even fucking _there_.”

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, resting his hand against Bucky’s cheek, leaving it there because Bucky turns his face into it, his eyes fluttering shut. Like _this_ — Steve’s touch against his skin — is giving him relief. “You have any meds you can take for this stuff?”

“Oh yeah, I’m on daily antidepressants,” Bucky answers, easy as anything, openly telling Steve about his medical history. “And I’ve been popping Advil every few hours. None of it gets rid of it entirely.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He’s not an amputee, but he does know a thing or two about phantom pain, and he knows even more about PTSD. “Do you mind if I ask why you went to work at all today? Did you even sleep?”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky admits, nuzzling Steve’s palm now, sending waves of goosebumps across his skin. “But this happens, Steve. If I called out every time I had a day like today, I’d get fired.”

“I hate that,” Steve tells him earnestly. “You should get to rest when you need to.”

Bucky doesn’t respond except to lean more heavily into Steve’s hand on his face. Which is enough for Steve to pull him closer, and scoot closer himself, until Bucky’s head is resting on Steve’s shoulder, his face fully nuzzled into Steve’s neck now, and Steve’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

This isn’t the day to confess his feelings, Steve knows. That’s not what Bucky needs. What he needs is comfort. He needs relief. He needs to be _held_ for a minute, allowed to let go, to _rest_. Even if he can’t stay long. He deserves a moment’s peace.

If Steve can give him that, he will. He always will.

After a few minutes of sitting here, wrapped around each other, while Steve rubs his hands up and down Bucky’s strong back, aware of raised scars he can feel even through his uniform, Bucky sighs.

“You’re really nice to me,” he says in a small voice, his lips barely brushing Steve’s skin.

“I like you,” Steve replies without thinking. And then quickly amends, “You’re my friend.”

_Not the moment. Not the time._

Bucky sniffs, and sits up, pulling out of Steve’s arms. His eyes are focused on nothing, somewhere in the vicinity of Steve’s left shoulder. “I’m sorry about this,” he mutters. Resigned. Beaten down. “I guess sooner or later, you were gonna see the mess, huh.”

“You’re not a mess,” Steve says firmly. “And you don’t need to be sorry. I wish I could do more.”

Bucky glances up to meet Steve’s eyes, his expression wary, almost suspicious.

“Why?” he asks bluntly.

Steve smiles. “I care about you,” he confesses. It’s true, in every way. Bucky can take it however he likes, and he’ll be right. “I want you to be okay.”

Bucky’s wary expression gradually melts into a small, shy smile. “I’m okay,” he breathes. “Thanks to you.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re okay thanks to _you_ ,” he argues. “But I’m glad I could help you with that.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, and sighs. His eyes don’t leave Steve’s again.

Eventually, though, he does need to leave, and stands up off the couch.

“Thanks for the tea,” Bucky says at the door, after Steve’s signed the form they both abandoned there, and then taken a cursory glance at the very expensive-looking cufflinks he’s been sent before confirming Bucky’s suspicions that he wants to send them back. “And thank you for—” he stops, and wets his lips again. He still looks tired, still looks like he’s in pain, but he’s calmer now, at least. “Thank you for being you.”

Steve longs to reach out and pull Bucky against him again. To keep him here, give him the space to fall apart, if he needs to. To give him the space to _rest_.

“Always for you, Buck,” he says honestly. _Anything for you_.

Bucky smiles before he leaves. It manages to reach his eyes.

When he’s gone, Steve lets out a deep sigh.

He still has tomorrow. He can wait till then.

═════ ✭❤︎⓮❤︎✭ ═════

But, as it turns out, Steve doesn’t have tomorrow after all.

He’s ready to make a grand gesture. He spent the morning running out to get flowers and chocolates for Bucky, and dedicated the early afternoon to taking a shower and picking out something to wear that makes him look presentable. By mid-afternoon, he’s a ball of nerves, but he’s _ready_.

And then mid-afternoon turns to late afternoon. And late afternoon turns to evening. And six o’clock, the time Bucky clocks out every day, comes and goes without a ring of the doorbell.

It’s silly to feel so disappointed. Steve’ll see Bucky again, he will. And when he does, he can ask him out then. It doesn’t _need_ to be a grand, romantic gesture on a grand, romantic day. It doesn’t. Bucky is special every day.

But still. Steve wanted this. _Wants_ this, wants _Bucky_ , more than anything. He was _so ready_ to start something with that boy. And now he hurts.

Who knows when he’ll see Bucky again? Who knows if he’ll be sent out on another mission before then? _God_ , if only Steve had—

_Ding-dong!_

The cheerful sound of Steve’s doorbell cuts through his thoughts. It can’t be Bucky, it’s already quarter to seven, and dark outside.

Nevertheless, Steve can’t help but hold his breath, his heart lodged in his throat, as he gets up off his couch to answer the door.

Through the peephole, he sees the most stunning pair of silvery-blue eyes a man has surely ever witnessed.

Quickly, he opens the door.

“Bucky—” Steve starts, but stops the second those eyes, shining bright with hope and anticipation, glance up to meet his.

Bucky is standing here, at Steve’s door, with no clipboard, and no uniform, his gorgeous curls loose around his face and shoulders. He’s wearing a dark red henley, with the left sleeve pinned up and the right sleeve pushed up to his elbow, over a pair of dark wash jeans that hug the curves of his hips and thighs like they love those curves as much as Steve does. In his hand is one solitary red envelope.

He smiles, breathless. “I think your mystery lover gave up on you.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, barely breathing himself, “seems like it.”

Bucky bites lip. “I haven’t, though,” he says boldly, and hands Steve the envelope.

Steve glances down at the thing in his hands, and then back up at Bucky, who’s watching him with this look on his face like he can barely contain what’s within him.

That’s what does it. Steve rips open the envelope, and pulls out the card inside.

_**art:** Steve's valentine from Bucky; **art by:** jehans_

It’s a sweet, simple thing. A cute little watercolor print of two heart-shaped balloons, their strings intertwined. Steve flips it open.

There’s no message printed inside from the card company. There’s something much, much better.

Handwritten, in a pretty, angular scrawl, is the message:

> _Do you like me? Check yes or no._

And underneath, two checkboxes. One marked ‘ _yes_ ,’ the other marked ‘ _no._ ’

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He snatches a pen out of the drawer of his sideboard, and firmly checks the box marked ‘ _yes_.’ Then, because that simple word in no way gets even close to describing how he feels, he jots down and underlines one word above the ‘ _yes_ ,’ so that now his check mark reads ‘ _hell_ _yes_.’

_**art:** the inside of Steve's valentine from Bucky; **art by:** jehans_

The moment he’s done, he straightens up, and hands the card back to Bucky.

Bucky takes it with a shaking hand. Looks down on it like it’s the only important thing in his entire life. He sees Steve’s answer, and his face _lights up_.

Bucky stares up at Steve with such gorgeous happiness making him shine all over, and Steve no longer cares about keeping himself in check. Bucky wants this. Bucky _came here after work on Valentine’s Day_ , to ask Steve outright if he wants this, too. And Steve _does_. _Fuck_ , he really does.

He reaches out and cradles Bucky’s face again, just like yesterday, watches in awe as Bucky’s eyelids flutter at the touch. Bucky leans into Steve’s hand again, like it’s unconscious, like his body just _responds_ this way to Steve’s touch.

Like the ache that’s been growing inside of Steve has been growing inside Bucky, too.

Steve starts to lean in to kiss that mouth that he’s been longing for, and Bucky leaps toward him, too, and their mouths crash together right there in Steve’s doorway.

Steve moans loudly when Bucky’s hot, gorgeous mouth opens obediently for him at the slightest prompting. They’re still half in the hall, where anyone could hear or see them. Steve backs up blindly, pulling Bucky inside his apartment, refusing to break their kiss for even a moment.

Once Bucky is clear of the door, Steve turns them both so he can kick it shut, and then — because they’re _right there,_ and how could he not? — backs Bucky up against the wall, cages him in with his body.

 _God_ , Bucky’s mouth is soft. Soft, and plush. Wet, and hot. Steve wants to _live_ inside this kiss. Inside the slide of their tongues, the press of their lips, again and again. The way Bucky tastes; wintergreen, and a faint trace of coffee. And something else. Something that’s just _Bucky_.

“Can I take you to dinner?” Steve gasps between kisses, _desperate_ to make this man his. To date him, to _fuck_ him, to keep him. “Tonight?” he continues, pressing their lips together again between every question, unable to keep himself away. “Right now?” Bucky moans into his mouth, shoved back against the wall. “This very moment? God, _please_ say yes.”

“Yes,” Bucky sighs before claiming Steve’s mouth again, fingers in his hair. “Yes, yes, yes, Stevie.” He kisses along Steve’s jawline, to his chin. “Tonight, tomorrow,” nuzzles Steve’s neck, “every night, _yes_ —but first, I _really_ fucking want you to fuck me up against the wall right here.”

Steve hisses, dick _jumping_. Bucky presses a chaste kiss to the juncture of his shoulder. “ _Christ,_ Buck.”

“C’mon,” Bucky coaxes, mouthing his way back up Steve’s neck, smearing lips across his skin, “I know you’re strong enough.”

Steve shudders. “Isn’t that—” he hisses another gasp as Bucky starts nibbling on his earlobe, “—a little backwards? Fucking you _before_ I buy you dinner?”

Bucky pulls away to lean his head back on the wall and tilt his chin up, baring his throat to Steve. He smiles, eyes sharp and hungry. Steve _wants_ _him_.

“What can I say?” Bucky purrs. “I’m the kind of guy who likes to eat his dessert first, sometimes.” His eyes rake over Steve, throat still bared in invitation. “ _Fuck_ , I want you to eat me _alive_.”

Steve _growls_.

He latches his teeth on Bucky’s throat and drinks down the gasping moans that brings out of this beautiful man. Steve’s not sure he’s ever made a noise quite like that before. Certainly not during sex, and _especially_ not while making out with someone as foreplay. But he wants Bucky like _burning_. Wants to swallow him whole. Wants to own him, possess him, _keep_ him.

It’s feral, and jealous, and crude. But Steve _wants_ , and Bucky’s responding to it _so_ sweetly. Bucky’s telling Steve that _he_ _wants, too_.

“God, I like you _so_ much, Stevie,” Bucky starts babbling, in between little whimpers while Steve takes care to suck bruises into his neck, claiming him the way they both want. “I’ve been dying to tell you that, I like you _so fucking much!_ ”

Steve noses Bucky’s insanely perfect jaw. “Why didn’t you?” he moans, rolling his hips against Bucky’s, rubbing their erections together and getting another high-pitched whine out of Bucky’s slack mouth.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted— _ah!_ I mean, I’m just your delivery driver—”

“ _Fuck_ that!” Steve snaps, lifting his head to stare blazingly into Bucky’s heavily-lidded eyes. “You are one of the bravest, best people I know, Bucky Barnes, and I like you _so fucking much_ , too. Been wanting you since I first saw you through my fucking peephole.”

“You want me?” Bucky asks, a fire in his eyes, grinding his hips up into Steve’s.

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve groans.

“You can have me,” Bucky tells him fiercely. “Take me. I’m all yours, Stevie.”

Steve’s entire body shakes with the noise that comes out of him from that promise. He seizes the backs of Bucky’s thighs and hoists him up in one movement, shoving him harder against the wall. Bucky wraps his legs around Steve’s waist, grips him with those strong, thick thighs.

There is absolutely no way Steve is going to last long enough to stretch Bucky open and fuck him here, like this. He starts making plans while he transfers Bucky’s weight entirely to one arm, and deftly opens Bucky’s fly with the other. Bucky is arching into his touch. Steve could easily just reach into his underwear and get a hand on him. Bring him to his climax now, and then himself to his own, and they could transfer into the bedroom for round two.

Yeah, that seems like the best plan for now. But first, Steve _has_ to get a hand on that ass. He’s been watching it bounce away for two agonizing weeks, and he _needs_ to squeeze and knead it _immediately_.

Steve shoves the hand not holding Bucky’s weight down the back of his jeans, moaning at the plush give of those perfectly round cheeks, basking in the broken noises Bucky’s making in return, as he tries to simultaneously rut up against Steve’s abs and press back into his hand. Steve slides his fingers down Bucky’s crack, intending to tease Bucky’s hole a little before he jerks him off, but as his fingers dip lower, he freezes.

Bucky is still writhing, trying to get some friction, when Steve pulls his head away from that bruised, bitten throat, and stares at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re wearing a plug?” he asks hoarsely.

Bucky would absolutely smirk, Steve can tell, if he weren’t _so_ gone and desperate right now. His eyes are half closed, his lips bitten red, his throat mottled in blood-flushed teeth marks. His hips are still grinding, searching.

“Had high hopes,” he answers. His voice is rough, too.

Immediately, Steve drops Bucky’s thighs, hands on his waist so he doesn’t fall entirely. The moment Bucky is steady, if still surprised, Steve steps back from him to give him space.

“Take off your clothes,” he commands, low and firm. “I want you naked _right now_. That’s an order.”

Bucky’s eyes widen with his grin. He’s already stripping out of his shirt as he responds with an enthusiastic, “Yes, sir,” that goes directly to Steve’s cock.

 _Oh_ , they’re gonna have fun together.

While Bucky undresses, Steve stands back, crosses his arms, and watches. Bucky’s moving fast, but he notices Steve just observing him, and falters halfway through shoving his jeans down his thighs.

“Problem?” Steve asks, cocking one eyebrow.

This is where Bucky can change the dynamic if he wants to. Steve suspects he doesn’t, but if Bucky’s not into this, or doesn’t like being submissive — though that seems unlikely, at this point — this is an opening for him to say stop.

But Steve watches as the tent in Bucky’s boxer briefs twitches violently at the question, and Bucky’s shocked face lights up again with excitement.

“No, Captain,” he purrs in reply, and then yanks his jeans the rest of the way off.

Bucky’s scars — scattered all over his torso, around his arm, and down his legs — aren’t a shock. Steve is familiar with the effects prolonged torture will have on a body. He’s met people who have survived it before. One of the guys he met by chance during the War — and then met again, on purpose, in the empty showers in the middle of the night, and fucked — had spent a few months in enemy hands about a year before Steve got his own hands on him, and he bore some of the same scars Bucky has now. That guy didn’t have nearly as many as Bucky does, but the sight of those scars isn’t something that would _ever_ cause Steve to recoil.

Actually, Bucky is _exquisite_. He doesn’t seem to have any residual arm at all, his body simply rounding off at his shoulder. He is, head to toe, made of nothing but golden skin and lean muscle. Small waist, strong arm, defined abs, and thighs like tree trunks. He’s got the most _gorgeous_ set of tits — not as bulbous as Steve’s, but still a solid handful — dusted with a smattering of neat chest hair. His nipples are peaked, and a sweet russet color. Steve can’t wait to bite them raw.

Bucky locks eyes with Steve. Then pushes the waistband of his boxer briefs down. They fall at his feet, where he kicks them away.

And now Bucky is standing there, in front of Steve, completely nude.

He’s _mesmerizing_. Unattainably beautiful. His cock as pretty as the rest of him, thick, cut, and standing at attention. Just like Bucky is. It lists just a little bit to the left, the head already deliciously red, and dripping with precum. Bucky is bewitching.

And he’s _Steve’s_.

“Good boy,” Steve purrs, making note of the shiver that runs through Bucky’s entire body at the praise. “Now me.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky breathes, this time with so much submissive sincerity, it almost buckles Steve’s knees. He takes the few steps between them, and reaches for the hem of Steve’s shirt, but Steve slides one hand into those soft, loose curls, and makes a fist, jerking Bucky’s head back by his hair to look up into Steve’s eyes, through the absolutely fucked-out look on his face at having his hair pulled. _Also noted_.

“Call me Steve tonight,” Steve orders with an edge of desperation. “I love hearing you call me sir, but I wanna hear my _name_ on your lips tonight.”

Through that hazy expression, Bucky’s mouth quirks into a tender smile. “Yes, Steve,” he whispers. Steve can’t help but kiss him.

He backs off after a few moments, though it’s difficult with how badly he wants to keep kissing Bucky for the rest of eternity, until they simply become one being. But he can feel Bucky’s fingers at the hem of his shirt, twitching with the need to obey his command, to willingly submit to his orders. So Steve lifts his head, and watches Bucky undress him.

It was fantastic enough to watch Bucky strip himself, something he does every day. But the way he skillfully divests Steve of his clothes with only one arm to work with—it’s like art, really. Bucky makes it look like art.

 _Christ_ , this boy deserves the world. The entire world, and everything in it. He deserves it all, and Steve will stop at nothing to give it to him.

Starting with this.

As soon as Bucky — kneeling on the floor now, and casting aside Steve’s boxers — turns those baby blues back up to await his next order, Steve ducks down and grabs him by the waist, hauling him back up, and scooping him by his thighs again, until Bucky’s legs are once more wrapped around Steve’s waist.

They’re several steps from the wall, but Steve’s already changed his mind about returning to the exact spot they were a few minutes ago. Bucky deserves everything, and Steve has Ideas.

Bucky groans, loud and ragged, when Steve starts walking them both easily from the living room and down the hall.

“Jesus fuck, you’re strong,” Bucky pants against Steve’s temple. He’s clinging to Steve’s shoulders and rolling his hips repeatedly against his abs, slicking Steve with the precum he’s leaking. “You got no idea how hard it’s been, bringing you all those expensive things from someone else who wants you. You’re so fucking hot, been so fucking _good_ to me, ’n I been wanting you so fucking bad, Stevie, _Christ_.”

“Are you goddamn _kidding_ me?” Steve shoots back, nudging Bucky’s face out of the way with his nose so he can bite roughly at his throat again. “Don’t want no one else but you, Buck. God, baby, started fallin’ for you the second I saw you, you gotta know that.”

Bucky makes a sound like a sob, arm and legs tightening around Steve’s body, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder, trying to get closer, even though they’re already intertwined. Steve shifts his weight back onto one arm so he can get his bedroom door open, and Bucky whimpers.

“Me too,” he gasps, in this wrecked voice that makes Steve want to open himself up, and keep this man inside his ribcage, safe and sound and always with him. “Stevie, fuck, me too. Never felt like this before, can’t hardly _breathe_ with it.”

Steve shivers. Is it too soon to tell this guy he might be in love with him? Probably, right? But _fuck_ , Steve’s starting to realize that’s probably true. He’s never believed in love at first sight, and he’s _well_ aware that they’ve barely started getting to know each other…but Steve can see an eternity in this moment, with this man. He can see years and years of Bucky, and he wants them all. Wants to watch this kid’s hair turn silver, his laughter lines deepen. Wants to place a ring on his finger, and promise to give him his life. It’s way too soon to know any of that for sure, yes, but Steve can’t fucking deny that he _wants that_.

“I’ve never felt like this before, either,” he whispers with such great honesty. “ _God_ , I want you.”

“I’m yours,” Bucky breathes back. Ducks to press his lips to Steve’s in the softest kiss. “You don’t even know, sweetheart. I’m all yours. Take me. Claim me. I’m already yours.”

Steve moans, standing still in the middle of his bedroom for a moment so that he can just hold Bucky against himself, hug him tight, skin to skin, utterly overcome. Bucky brushes featherlight kisses all over his face, from his cheekbones, to his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, chin, temples, eyebrows, and finally, his lips. Steve wonders if Bucky sees the same future that Steve does. If he wants it just as much.

Steve wonders if, when Bucky says, ‘ _I’m yours_ ,’ he’s trying not to say, ‘ _I love you_.’

“Stevie,” Bucky breathes, rutting against Steve’s stomach again. “Baby, please. Please fuck me, _please_.”

It pulls Steve back to the present moment, to the very naked man in his arms, his own very hard, throbbing cock.

With another soft, possessive growl, Steve stops by his nightstand to grab a condom and a bottle of lube, noticing with interest the way Bucky clings to him tighter, like he thinks Steve’s going to drop him on the bed, and he’s trying to keep that from happening.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Steve purrs into his mouth, “I didn’t forget. Gonna give you what you want.”

Bucky whines gratefully, shoving his fingers through Steve’s hair, pushing forward to kiss him deeper.

With Bucky still balanced on one arm and the supplies in the other, Steve walks them over toward the huge, full-length mirror that stands in one corner of his bedroom. He usually uses it to ease the process of getting into his Cap uniform, which can be complicated to put on when he can’t see all the fastenings. Steve is a big guy, so the mirror is somewhat gigantic. And the nice thing about it being on a frame instead of mounted to the wall is Steve can move it to wherever he needs it.

He’s gonna put that particular feature to good use tonight.

“Do me a favor, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, holding the condom up between them. “Reach down and get this on me.”

“Yes, Steve,” Bucky moans at once, letting go of his grip around Steve’s shoulders — just _trusting_ Steve to keep holding him up with just the one arm — grabs the condom, and rips it open with his teeth.

While he does that, Steve uses his mostly-free hand to drag the big mirror out of the corner, and spin it around so it’s facing the wall. He’s focused enough on angling it correctly that Bucky’s warm hand rolling a condom on his cock genuinely startles him. The groan that emanates from his throat is almost _animalistic_.

“Please, Steve,” Bucky begs so pretty. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease—“

He cuts off with a sharp gasp as Steve shoves him back against the wall, hard.

“Bucky,” Steve hums, scraping his teeth over that cut jaw. “I’m gonna fuck you now. Right here, against the wall, like you want.”

Bucky moans, wanton and uncontrolled. It makes Steve feel wild.

“I’m gonna fuck you, and I want to you to watch,” Steve continues, clinging onto his last thread of restraint before it snaps. “I want you to look at yourself over my shoulder, and watch me fuck you. Want you to watch yourself come apart on my cock.”

Bucky curses under his breath, tilting his head back against the wall for a moment to squeeze his eyes shut. “Yes, Steve,” he whispers eventually, and lifts his head to fix his eyes dutifully on the mirror behind Steve.

Steve was careful to set the mirror a little to the side, and angled so Bucky can see more than just Steve’s back and his own legs, but himself, too. His side, his hip, the way Steve’s hands are squeezing the meat of his pert ass. Bucky looks in the mirror, and he sees Steve loving on him.

He makes a noise high in his throat, like he’s overwhelmed.

 _Good_.

“Oh, honey,” Steve purrs, nuzzling the line of Bucky’s neck, the juncture of his shoulder, his collarbone. “You’re so sweet, you know that? Smallest little things just make you melt, don’t they? God, I _love_ that. So sweet for me, so good. Submissive—” Steve smiles as Bucky gasps a little sob, “— _responsive_ , and so, so _good_.”

With the last growled word, Steve grabs hold of the end of the plug stretching Bucky’s hole open, and unceremoniously yanks it out of him.

Bucky _screams_ as the plug falls to the floor with a clatter, and Steve’s restraint finally breaks.

He manages to get some lube on his fingers, shoving three of them at once inside Bucky’s tight heat. The plug is smaller than Steve’s cock, and he really _should_ take a little more time to stretch this kid, but he can’t, he _can’t_ , he doesn’t have the self-control—

“Buck—” he bites out, strained and strangled with the effort it’s taking not to fuck into that little hole _right now_. “Buck, do you need—?”

“No,” Bucky whimpers quickly, his eyes locked on the two of them in the mirror. “No, I can take it, please fuck me, stretch me on your cock, baby, I need you, Stevie, I need— _aughahh!_ ”

He’s screaming again, his eyes flying shut as he lurches forward, and bites down on Steve’s shoulder reflexively from the feeling of Steve shoving his fat cock all the way inside Bucky’s sweet little hole, all at once.

“Shh, shh,” Steve croons soothingly. He lifts one hand from Bucky’s ass, and rubs it up and down his thigh, his hip, his side. Bucky genuinely sobs into Steve’s shoulder from the stretch, from being made to take it all. “You’re okay, sweet boy, you’re okay. You can take it, I know you can. You can take me, can’t you, baby? I know it’s big, but it’s gonna feel real good in a second, isn’t that right? Gonna feel so good splitting you open. Breaking you apart. You want that, baby?”

Bucky nods, smearing the tears that are spilling from his eyes into Steve’s skin. “Hurts,” he whispers brokenly, “but ‘s good. ‘S so fuckin’ good, Stevie, thank you, _god_ , _thank you_ —”

Another broken gasp cuts off Bucky’s words when Steve shifts, forcing Bucky to take the last few centimeters of him.

“Jesus, you’re so pretty when you cry,” Steve murmurs, turning his head to kiss the salty tracks of Bucky’s tears. “Those for me, sweetheart? You’re too good, baby, too fuckin’ sweet. But you’re not following my orders, are you?” he tuts. “Not gonna tell you again, Buck.”

Bucky breathes raggedly a few times, in and out, lifting his head to gaze hazily into Steve’s eyes, clearly trying to remember what he told him to do.

Steve waits him out. Gives him a little grace, considering he did just make Bucky take his entire cock at once, and Bucky’s doing that _so_ well. He deserves a little leeway.

Finally, Steve watches it click in Bucky’s eyes, which then snap toward the mirror, and the image of his own, tearstained, fucked-out face, the bruises that are already starting to purple all over his neck. He makes a noise halfway between a moan and a sob, and then takes Steve fully by surprise by _pushing back onto Steve’s cock_.

“Oh, _honey_ ,” Steve groans. “You ready? Can’t control myself much longer, _Christ_ , you feel so good.”

“I’m ready,” Bucky gasps in Steve’s ear. “Fuck me, c’mon, Stevie, _please_.”

Steve doesn’t know if he’ll ever really be able to deny Bucky when he begs like that. He foresees an awful lot of Bucky getting absolutely everything he wants.

Steve purrs low in his throat, licks up the bruises on Bucky’s, and does as he asks.

The first slow slide of Steve’s cock out of his hole makes Bucky whimper again, and _god_ the kid is responsive. He’s going to _kill_ Steve with how prettily he falls apart for him, easy as anything. It makes it impossible not to fuck back into him fast and hard. And when that brings out even more beautiful keens, Steve is helpless. The pace is set for him, and he begins to absolutely _rail_ the boy.

Every thrust draws more gasps, whines, moans, and squeaks out of this gorgeous thing in Steve’s arms, pressed against Steve’s body, taking him inside _so fucking well_. Little beads of sweat are starting to form on Steve’s temples and chest from the exertion of holding Bucky up, and slamming into him again and again, faster and faster, harder and harder. He’s already close, and honestly, he has been since his fingers found the plug inside Bucky. This is not going to last long.

That’s all right. They’ll have time for another round later. They’ll have time for a hundred thousand rounds, if Steve has any say.

As Bucky’s climax mounts, the pitch of his moans do, too. He stares at the mirror image of Steve taking him apart as promised, and grinds against Steve’s belly, and he’s the most gorgeous thing Steve has ever seen in his entire fucking life when he arches his back, tilts his face up, squeezes his eyes shut—and comes, spasming and trembling on Steve’s cock.

Steve never had a _chance_ of surviving that. But he manages to keep his eyes open and locked on this beautiful boy of his — _his_ — as he shakes and comes, too.

On the last throb of Steve’s cock inside him, Bucky goes limp in his arms, not even holding himself up with his legs anymore, just draping his full weight against Steve, leaving slack-mouthed kisses on his neck where his pretty face is tucked. Steve feels a lot like going boneless himself, but he supposes he _is_ the one of the two of them with super strength. He can be the one to get them to the bed.

It’s only a few steps, really, but they’re wobbly, with Bucky’s dead weight and Steve’s jelly legs. Still, Steve does manage to carefully lower Bucky down onto the plush mattress, and place a soft kiss to his salty forehead, murmuring something that he hopes sounds enough like, “Be right back,” that Bucky understands.

Bucky just hums, happy, and closes his eyes, his head lolling to the side on Steve’s pillow, hair all sweat-soaked and disheveled, a satisfied little smile playing on his lips.

_God, he’s beautiful._

Steve slips into his en suite, wets a washcloth, and uses it to perfunctorily wipe down his stomach and chest, where Bucky’s cum is splattered and dripping. He pulls off the condom, ties it off and disposes of it in the bathroom’s little trash can, then quickly cleans his cock, too. He rinses out the washcloth with hot water, squeezes it out until it’s damp, but not dripping, and returns to the boy in his bed.

Bucky is lying where Steve left him, but his head is turned toward Steve now. His eyes are open, watching Steve come back to him with clear affection, clear joy. It takes Steve’s breath away, and as he plants one knee on the bed next to Bucky, he can’t bring himself to _not_ bend down and kiss those sweet lips.

It’s a gentle kiss, soft and slow, their first that’s been quite like this. Steve can’t wait to share thousands more. Bucky kisses him back, and when Steve lifts his head just enough to look into those gorgeous, sliver-blue eyes, he gives another happy hum.

“You’re wonderful,” Steve whispers to him. Honest. “You’re really, really wonderful, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes fill with awe, and…love. “I’m yours,” he whispers back.

Steve’s pretty damn sure he knows what that means. _Fuck_.

He takes a chance.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

It transforms Bucky. His face crumples, his eyes fill with tears. His hand comes up to cover his face for a moment. Steve circles his fingers around Bucky’s wrist, but doesn’t try to pull his hand away. Under it, he can see Bucky’s dazzling grin.

After a few seconds, Bucky takes his hand off his own face to rest it on Steve’s cheek above him, instead.

“I thought I was the only one,” he breathes, his voice thick with tears. “I thought— I think I’m in love with you, too, Stevie.”

Steve didn’t even know he was holding his breath, but it all comes gusting out in relief and happiness. He smiles so wide, it hurts his face, and ducks down to kiss Bucky again and again.

They get distracted sharing enthusiastic, smiley kisses for a while, lying together on Steve’s bed, their legs tangled, hands pulling each other as close as they can get. The only thing that stops them, actually, is when Steve decides to roll Bucky onto his back, so he can lie of top of him while they make out, and the shift of their bodies makes a bizarre crunching noise because the cum that Steve forgot to clean off of Bucky’s chest and belly dried, fusing them together a bit. And after that, Bucky is just laughing too hard to keep kissing like this, so Steve drags him out of bed, and into the shower.

But the thing is, Bucky is drool-worthy when he’s wearing a stupid faux-USPS uniform. Bucky naked, and wet, and flushed, in a steamy shower — with Steve’s bruises all over his neck, chest, and shoulders — is _mind-breakingly_ sexy.

It’s not Steve’s fault. He’s simply _forced_ to press Bucky up against the shower wall, and furiously jerk him off until he’s a whimpering mess in Steve’s arms again.

Damn, Steve _loves_ reducing this sweet, sexy boy to a tearful puddle, just like that.

And. Well. When Bucky blinks his big, wet, baby blues up at Steve, and asks if he can return the favor, how is Steve supposed to say no to _that?_

If naked, wet, flushed, bruised Bucky is mind-breakingly hot, what the _hell_ is Steve supposed to do with naked, wet, flushed, bruised Bucky _on his knees_ , with Steve’s cock down his throat?

Suffice it to say, Steve doesn’t last long this time, either. He’ll get better at that.

After the water is turned off, and after Bucky inspects all his love bites in the mirror and tells Steve, “Oh, you are _so_ lucky I have two days off,” with far too much fondness in his voice to sound at all threatening, Steve finds himself with a towel around his waist, sitting on the armchair in his bedroom, one very towel-bundled Bucky curled up happily, like a cat, in his lap.

“So,” Steve begins, deeply enjoying playing with Bucky’s damp curls, “I know this may seem obvious, but I’m still getting used to dating in this century, so I gotta ask, for clarity’s sake. You want this to be a relationship, right?”

Bucky actually snorts. “Yeah, Steve,” he confirms, amused. “I want this to be a relationship. You heard me tell you I’m in love with you, right?”

Steve’s soft smile grows bigger. “I heard you say you _think_ you’re in love with me,” he corrects. “But I’m pretty sure, too.”

Bucky leans in, and brushes their noses together. “I don’t know how,” he whispers. “I may never understand why it happened so fast. Like I said, I’ve never felt like this before. But I love you, Steve Rogers. I’m in love with you. I really am.”

“I love you, too,” Steve breathes back. “I don’t get it, either, but it’s true. And I’m _so glad_.”

“Me too.”

Steve presses a tender kiss to Bucky’s pretty lips.

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s mouth.

Steve nods, leaning back to see his face.

Bucky bites his lip. “You asked me, earlier, why I didn’t tell you I liked you before tonight.”

“I did.”

“But if you liked _me_ ,” Bucky says slowly, “why didn’t _you_ say anything?”

Steve tilts his head. He kind of thought that was obvious, but maybe not. “Well, Buck,” he explains, “you were always here for work. I wasn’t sure if you were only flirting with me because you like to flirt, and I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable by hitting on you at work.”

Bucky is staring at Steve like that is both the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, and the stupidest.

“Steve,” he deadpans, exasperated and amused. “I basically _fellated_ a strawberry in front of you, two days after we met. I was projecting ‘ _PLEASE MAKE OUT WITH ME!_ ’ so bright, they coulda seen it from _space_.”

“I wasn’t sure!” Steve protests. He just adores the way Bucky cackles at that, head thrown back and nose all scrunched again.

“God, you’re lucky you’re pretty,” Bucky laughs, shaking his head.

Steve grins. “I know.”

“And I’m lucky you’re as fucking hopeless as I am.”

“Nah, that’s _my_ luck again, pal.”

Bucky kisses him. Bucky kisses are now Steve’s official favorite thing to spend time on. 

“All right,” he says pragmatically when Bucky pulls back to smile sweetly at him. Steve grins at Bucky’s cocked eyebrow in response to the shift in tone. “It is, surprisingly, only about nine-thirty, so if you want to get dressed, I can still take you out to dinner tonight. Go on a real date.”

Bucky scrunches his nose thoughtfully. “Kinda enjoying being naked with you,” he says.

“I’m enjoying that, too,” Steve agrees, and tilts his face up so he can press his lips to the hinge of Bucky’s jaw.

“Okay,” Bucky says decisively, turning into the kiss. “How’s this? We’ll order in tonight—still counts as you buying me dinner if you pay,” he points out to Steve’s skeptical face. “And then tomorrow,” he bites his lip again, looking nervous and hopeful, “you can take me out to breakfast?”

“You wanna stay over?”

Bucky nods shyly. “If you want me to.”

“Baby,” Steve coos, nuzzling Bucky’s cheekbone with all the tenderness in his heart, “I couldn’t want anything more.”

═════ ✭❤︎✭ ═════

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! 🥰
> 
> [@apblaidd](https://twitter.com/apblaidd)
> 
> **UPDATE:**  
>  Oh my lord, you all are adorable and hilarious, and I gotta put this to bed. 😂 The truth is, I am never going to make a call on who was and who wasn't Steve's secret admirer. The reason for this is simple: Steve doesn't care. Steve is never going to pull on that thread. He got Bucky, that's all that matters to him. And his secret admirer, whoever they are, gave up! They stopped trying. They are, presumably, not going to bring it up, since they didn't want to be known while they still had a chance, let alone when they've been rejected. Steve and Bucky don't need to know who it was, which is why I chose not to say.
> 
> So what does this mean? This means the secret admirer is whoever you want it to have been. Who's your Steve notp? It can be them. A few people have theorized about conspiracies and schemes in the comments here already. Sure! No wrong answers here, pick your poison, you are correct. 😆


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